


Resolution

by blueswan



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Episode Related, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueswan/pseuds/blueswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things never get resolved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to The Girl in Question.
> 
> Edited and revised using the wonderful suggestions of ailise, nihilistbear and fishsanwitt of the con_critique community. Any continuing errors are mine.
> 
> Originally posted September 2004

Resolution

Charles slipped through the door, set down his briefcase and looked around Fred's room. It was empty but for some boxes in a corner. He'd been through the storage unit already, and what he sought was not there. He knew Wes wouldn't have taken it; he hadn't known Fred well enough for that.

Gunn knew that Wes had loved - still loved - Fred, but it had been different from what Gunn had shared with Fred. So, here he was breaking into her apartment and looking for forgotten fragments of his girl. That brought him up short, left him breathless. He stood in the middle of the room -- motionless, breathing deeply, hands dangling useless at his side -- trying to feel her. He'd been so sure, but there was nothing left. There was nothing left that he could sense or feel, and damned little he could touch.

The boxes waited - a last chance to visit with Fred.

The first one he opened hit him with every fragrance Fred ever wore. Shampoo and conditioners, lotions, perfumes, and oils - Fred's love for pretty scents had led her through cosmetic counter mazes, Charles gamely at her side. He gasped and sank to his knees - muscles beyond his control and shaking bone-deep.

He had a horrible moment of clarity when his brain whispered to him (in a voice that sounded remarkably like Wes), "and who's the show for Charles?" that ended the outburst immediately. Sucking in as much air as he could he reached a shaking hand into the box and teased out an unopened bar of soap - his favourite Fred smell. He folded the lid down carefully and reached for the next box.

An hour later, totally drained, Charles left the apartment - his briefcase full, but oddly not much heavier than when he had arrived. A few phone calls and he was in the air. He had a duty to fulfill. Lorne had told him of the visit by Fred's parents. It was all kinds of wrong that they were not told, not allowed to grieve for their daughter. He'd elected himself the messenger.

Charles regretted the safe landing that meant he could continue his mission.

When the car pulled up in front the of the ranch style house, he hesitated a long while before he climbed out of it. Stood in the stifling heat and wondered how anyone breathed the hot air that held him in place. Even in his lightweight suit he could feel the cold pools of sweat rising up to cling sharp and stinking to his skin. Moving to the door felt odd - he was in super slo-mo. His hand reached forward and struck dully on the door.

Everything went quiet, the air-conditioning units he'd heard rumbling noisily faded out and all he could hear was the snick of a lock being opened, and the soft scrape of the door moved from it's watching place. He saw the tanned hand that pushed the door open toward him. Heard the inhaled breath and the exhalation before Fred's mom welcomed him.

Charles would never know how he managed to walk past her into her home and never remember what they had said at the beginning. Nor would he remember how it was he came to be holding a sweating glass of iced tea, and agreeing the heat was something fierce. Smiling at a joke Mr. Burkell (call me Roger) told and wishing for the question. He sees it coming in the rise and fall of Fred's father's chest, and in the clutch and clench of her mother's fingers around Roger's wrist.

"There's been an accident in the labs. I'm very sorry. Fred-"

A hand touched his arm and Roger begged, "Don't. We knew when we saw your car. Who do we contact? To make the arrange-", broken off, his voice gone high and choked.

Gunn cried with them both, holding them in his arms and wishing hard they were his. And way back, in the very back lowest corner of his brain, he felt a jealous twinge. Because who would mourn for him? None at all, for there are none left to miss him.

 

When the initial flood slowed, they pulled away - embarrassed and shy. Suddenly aware of being naked with a near stranger, they still hovered close - like magnetized pieces waiting on another onslaught of grief to yank them back together. Might have been what made it so difficult for Gunn to step away and pick up his case; he was pretty sure it was something else.

Seeing Charles move to the door made them protest. Made them realize they were going to lose their last link to their daughter. They fought it with questions Gunn couldn't or wouldn't answer. An accident in the lab, contamination, and her personal effects gone; that was all he could give them. Oh. And the truth. That he had signed the authorization to bring the shipment into the country, into the lab, into the vicinity of Fred's voracious curiosity. Grim-faced he admitted he had killed their daughter, and they leapt to his defense - remained blindly loyal to their daughter and her choice of friend.

Gunn could handle no more. He removed a bag from his briefcase and snapped the case shut. Snick, snick the locks snapped back down. Left the bag on the couch and backed away, spewing I'm-so-sorry at the Burkles until he reached the door. A final "I'm sorry" and he was on the steps, turning to move away from the house. Torn by the need to be gone and his desire to remain with people who remembered Fred.

Nearly to the sidewalk and the waiting limousine when he hears their faint cries, Charles stumbles and catches himself. Pulls the door open and falls in, slamming it shut. As the car pulls away, he closes his eyes and envisions Fred intently explaining string theory to him while clutching a dingy stuffed bunny.

Charles feels a little less bitter a little more grounded. He'd lost sight of the mission the day the big kitty had snarled in his face. Fred's death has propelled him into it again. He wonders how many Feigenbaums he will have to retrieve and return before he is done helping the helpless.


End file.
